Disclaimer: HE belongs entirely to DWJ. I'd go so far as to say that HE belongs entirely to himself, but that might mean that I'd be overstepping copyright laws somewhere. This disclaimer is going to be an author's note, too: anything that doesn't seem right in this chapter is INTENTIONAL. Really. I mean it. That's the way it's supposed to be. You'll understand once you've finished the chapter. Enjoy!

The Word

- 1 -

I've experimented with saying it several different ways. You can put the emphasis on the first syllable, so that it sounds like you're cursing at someone; or on the second syllable, which makes the entire word resemble a rather peculiar hiccup. Emphasis on the third serves only to make you sound like you're announcing some great historical figure in a European accent. And the fourth syllable? Makes it sound like you're asking a question.

I found the slip of paper tucked inside a book. I don't know who left it there. I was at the public library's used book sale, and there were all sorts of odd volumes there – ancient, water-stained editions of Hardy's "Tess," and dozens of "Reader's Digest Compendiums," and even more bodice-ripping romance novels. It seems like a lot of people don't like Thomas Hardy. Dickens never shows up in used book sales – even if you don't like him, you keep his books on the shelf to impress your house-guests. That's what my aunt always used to do. She's still single, though, and showing her age – sixty-seven – so I don't suppose that it matters whether she likes Dickens or not.

The book was entitled, "Chess: Play Your Way to the Top." I don't know why I picked it out. I'm horrible at chess; every time I play I have to consult the rule book to remind myself of which pieces do what. Do you try to capture the king or the queen? Do pawns move in L-shapes or is it knights? Do you have to skip over the white squares? I'm much better at checkers. It's a game more suitable for my IQ level. But, as I thought when I picked the book out of a worn old cardboard box, it wouldn't hurt me to learn how to play chess. Properly, this time. Like having the odd Charles Dickens tome on your shelf, it's impressive to tell people that you can play chess. They automatically assume that you're either a) a math genius or b) the possessor of an awesome and unsurpassable intellect.

I flipped through the book once I got home, and was immediately repulsed by the way it was written. Not written, exactly; more like the way it was printed – row upon row of tiny letters crisscrossing each page. The font was minute, and when I say that I needed a magnifying glass to read it, I am being quite literal. Disgusted, I tossed the book aside, only to see a handful of papers fall out of it.

Foremost was the slip of paper with the word scrawled on it. It was printed in rounded, childish handwriting, likely a young girl's. Some fantasy word made up for a game, I supposed. But on another piece of paper, I found a set of instructions:

"Say it three times. Like you mean it. Then wait."

I was quite sure that these sentences applied to the word. It made sense; all the other pieces of paper consisted of drawings of horses – again, very childishly. They either resembled bathtubs held up on four tooth picks or ridiculously skinny lions with pink ribbons in their manes.

I tucked the pieces of paper back into the chess book, and promptly forgot all about them. That was during midterm exams, you see, and I had more important things to worry about – getting good grades, for one, so that I could make it to a university of my choice. I was absolutely focused on my career back then: psychologist. Not merely psychologist, but STAR psychologist. I was going to be the most-lauded of my profession. The best student in my class. The scholarship sponge.

Once midterms had passed, I returned to my pile of used-book-sale-books for a much-needed break. Of course, when I peered at the chess book again, I remembered the papers. And so we come to my difficulty pronouncing the word. I have attempted to say it three times, very carefully, and I've waited with the most extreme patience for something to happen. Nothing has.

I am exactly sixteen years too old to believe in fairy tales, but my lack of success with this word-spell is very frustrating. I find myself believing that it will work, even while I rationally berate myself for being so gullible. But there is a quality to the word – something otherworldly, something strange and not quite tangible. Take the word "gullible" for instance. It's right there. On paper, in your ears, behind your eyes, on your tongue. You can feel every last bit of it resounding in your body when you experience hearing, reading or saying it. You own the word entirely.

But not this word.

It's different. That's all I know – that's the only thing I know about it. Do I know what it means? No. Do I know what language it is? No, not really, only that it uses English characters. It does seem rather Anglo-saxon, though. There's just something about the way it is written on the page. An earnestness, perhaps; a child's firm conviction that no matter what happens, the word will always remain indisputably true in its meaning and function. Whoever wrote the word wrote it with confidence, pen pressed hard onto the paper. Each stroke is bold and smooth.

I analyze things too much. I know I do. This is one of my faults. It keeps coming up repeatedly at school – my teachers are always telling me to calm down, take a break, stop thinking so hard…

But this word just gets to me.

I want something to happen. I really do. I think I've said it in every way possible, every combination of sounds and emphases I can possibly devise for a word of this complexity. Not that it's complex.

Simplistic, based almost entirely on direct sound changes – no diphthongs or strange hard to pronounce silent letters…

I just can't understand why it won't work. It seems so easy.

Chestomancy, Chestomancy, Chestomancy.